My parents weren’t home so my sister brought her grandchild over here and let her loose. I was working on some paintings so she wound up down in the studio with me. I managed to carry on but at least half, no, more that half of my time was spent as assistant to her. More paper, fresh water, bigger brush. “I’m done with this one,” she would say and I’d drop what I was doing and attend to her needs. I really got a sense of what it would be like to be an artist’s assistant. They want to keep the juices flowing and stay productive and all of the mucky muck is handled by the assistant. My work was secondary. The world is demanding dinosaurs for their refrigerators.
Margaret Explosion has a very special show lined up for tomorrow. It’s a vegetarian, as in no vocals, Thanksgiving eve performance of all new material.
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Can’t wait for you to read Joe, the 52nd entry of my book 52 men, about an artist who wants his assistant both to wash his brushes and to be his, er, quiet studio companion….
But more, that was a very funny visual; of you as hamdmaiden to this child! I hear all children are masters now, and we their maidservants.